Hiding Among Us
by Zeskomos
Summary: This is a story that I thought up when someone told me about a paranormal experience they had. I incorporated some of the ideas I heard and others into this story, but changed a few things like names and places. Hope you enjoy. Please review.
1. Chapter 1

I promised myself I would never tell anyone this story. I am breaking that promise now...

**Hiding Among Us**

**Chapter I**

It started out as the most typical Friday school day. I was awake at around six fifteen that morning, and I just sat in bed for awhile before going upstairs to have a quick breakfast. As I got out of bed, my right foot touched the carpet and my left foot touched something else. I looked down and grabbed what I had stepped on. It was a small journal with a simple black cover and fine white pages. I had never seen the book before in our house, so I decided to flip through it. There was nothing in the pages at all. I shrugged it off, thinking it was just some new journal my mom had gotten from a local garage sale the day before and had decided to throw it in my room.

When I finished a bowl of soggy, bland cereal, I talked to my mom about the journal, showing the tiny thing to her. She had never seen it before, either. I thought it might have been delivered to my room by my dad, but since he had left for work before I had gotten up I had no chance of finding out until after school. After getting dressed and brushing my teeth, I pack up and head for school with my younger brother in our old, turquoise pick-up truck. The school is only about a mile away from our house, but that's not important now.

Once I got to the hallway where our grade's lockers are, I unload my beat-up binder, a hunky history textbook, and the journal. I don't know why I decided to bring the stupid thing to school, but I guess I just did. I wanted to find out if any of my friends had given it to me as an end-of-the-year prank. I could just picture them smirking and giggling that I could "write in it every day", and saying that it's a diary (diaries are for girls), but that's not important right now. I took my binder in hand, stuffed the slim journal inside it, and walked over to the entrance lobby where most of my friends hang out before the first bell rings. Still proceeding down the hall filled with panicking students studying for a test they had "forgotten" about, I spotted my girlfriend at her locker. I hate to brag, but I think I picked the best girl to be mine. Kate May Jones, the most beautiful, intelligent, fun-loving person you could ever meet. Just seeing her back made my heart flutter for joy, and I even forgot about the journal. I walked over to her and stood by locker next to her open one.

She noticed me. "Hi, Zach," she said a little quietly. She can be a tad shy sometimes. I return the greeting. I then pulled the journal out of my binder and showed it to her.

"Hey, check out what I found in my room this morning," I announce while placing it in her hand. She looked up from digging in her backpack. I just noticed then that her face was... different. She was pale. Kate grabbed the journal and examined its pages.

"Kate, are you alright? You look a little pale." She ignored me, still flipping through the crisp, clean pages with a perplexed look on her face. I hadn't even told her that I had no idea where it came from, and yet she seemed intrigued and a little nervous with her pale face and all. After about two seconds she looked up.

"Hm? Oh! Sorry. Yeah, I just... uh," She lightly swatted aside a lock of hair that was in front of her face. I'd seen her do that before. It means she is, or was formerly, busy studying or examining something of great interest or confusion. Usually she seems pretty stressed for most of the day when an event like that happens. The journal was definitely the confusing artifact of the day, but why was she already pale before I showed her it? I was deeply concerned, as I almost always am for her.

She continued. "I had a rough night. I- I couldn't sleep very well," Another swipe of her hair behind her ear. Definitely nervous. I took her left hand in mine.

"Hey, don't worry. Is it the history test? Yeah, I was up late, too. Don't worry it'll be fine."

That's where I'm the professional. Comforting people, especially ones I care about. A tiny smile runs across her face as she looked at me. "Yeah, that was probably it," she said quietly.

Just an average day at school... again. Sometimes I almost wish for something dangerous or scary to happen at our school. It could be anything, really. A terrorist group invades the courtyard and demands Mr. Dee (that's our science teacher this year) to give up his stash of dead animal bodies that he keeps in his cupboards. Yeah, that would be interesting. They probably would want the bodies of the toads and frogs and the hearts of small animals to complete some bomb that could kill everyone within a mile radius. Then they would use the bomb to destroy the whole town because they don't like people with Finnish ancestry, even ones that live in the United States. Maybe all the students in Mr. Dee's classroom would attack the terrorists and stop their sinister plot from unfolding. Bunsen burners and dissecting tools would be flying everywhere in the attempt to eliminate the terrorists. I have quite the imagination if you can't tell already.

I got home from the bus and went down to my room. My bedroom is in our basement, and I usually hang out in there if I have friends over or even if I'm by myself. I headed to my base of operations almost every day after school, but this time was different. When I landed on the cold tile floor of our basement my foot immediately sent a shockwave of coldness through my nerves. It was like getting goosebumps, only way worse. I started feeling like it was winter again, and I was standing outside in just summer clothes. I shook off the weird "omen" and continued behind the sofa facing the television to where my room is.

When I opened my glass-windowed door, I expected someone to be in there. It's that feeling people get when there's someone boring holes into the back of your skull trying to read your thoughts or when you can sense the person's body heat radiating from a spot. No one was in my room. However, there was the black journal lying on my bed. More shivers up my spine. Was this thing some sort of creature? Something that would follow you in your steps or your dreams? Nah! I walked over to the thing and opened it up again. Maybe it did belong to someone else, and I just didn't look through all the pages. I open it to the first page. Nothing. Flip, flip, flip. Sixty-six pages later I find something written in the top left corner, as if someone was going to start an entry: _Dear diary,_

It was in written in fine, pink pen, cursive, and gave me the creeps. For anyone who doesn't know, the number 666 is considered an evil number; the number of the Devil. Even though the only writing I found was on page _sixty-six _it still made me uneasy. Maybe it was the Star Wars knowledge I've stored up in my mind that made me realize that sixty-six was an order given to the clone troopers to kill all the Jedi. Yeah, I know. I'm kind of a geek. Besides, that page was the middle of the whole journal. Simply letting the book open on its own would cause it to most likely open to the middle and I would have seen it right away. When I first came across the writing, I had been flipping through by sliding my thumb back on the pages, letting them move over to the left rather fast. Just a technique I use to make it a faster job of examining. When I got to the middle, as usual with books, it stopped for a second before I continued to move my thumb, but I caught a glimpse of the bright pink text. It was like it wanted me to notice it. I decided now was not the time. I had some history homework to finish. Yeah, a long, difficult test, and to top it off, a few reading worksheets due next Monday! Woo-hoo.

At least it was Friday. One of the highlights of my day that started this year is walking with Kate to where my truck is in the school parking lot. Just before I get in the truck we say "good-bye" and hug. It really makes me feel warm and jubilant knowing I have someone that cares for me (other than family members). Thinking about the daily memory reminded me that Kate hadn't been herself today. The only times I had seen her during school was when we first got to our lockers and when we were leaving to go home. Sure I have a few classes with her, but she didn't seem like she was... there. Constantly day-dreaming about the impending summer vacation or watching that dog get walked around the neighborhood through the classroom window is a common habit most high schoolers do, but Katie was dissimilar. She barely moved while she was looking at the white board at the front of the English classroom. When not doing that she was looking at her notebook, flipping through the mostly occupied pages just like she did with my –excuse me, _the_– journal. I lightly tossed the journal lazily onto the floor near my bed. It thundered distantly outside the exact moment the journal hit the floor. Coincidence? Most likely, but wouldn't you be freaked out at that moment?

A ten-minute long dinner, no explanation from my dad about where the journal came from, and a few lazy last hours before hitting the sack later, I try to stay up in my lamp-lit room reading a required book for English next Monday. First one hundred million pages due read and a summary of the main character's depressing, godless reject life for second hour. Great. I'm usually an outstanding reader and writer, but reading things I don't enjoy... oh, that's not important now. My eyelids were getting heavy as I looked at the microscopic text of J.D. whatever-his-name, when I dozed off. Waking up later (later here meaning about two hours but feeling like two seconds) my face was in the book with a little drool on the corner of the right page. Teacher wasn't going to like that. I tried to rub the splotch of saliva with my bed sheets when I noticed with consternation that it wasn't my English book I was cleaning. It was the journal.

My throat was oddly dry when I looked at the cursed item open to the middle page that still contained the odd starter of _Dear Diary,. _Only now the word diary was capitalized. I was pretty sure at the time that it was lowercased. Again the feeling there's some guy in a trench coat, all bloody holding a rusty chainsaw is behind you watching your every move with a demonic grin takes me over. I hastily looked over my shoulder at the doors to my room. The lamp next to my nightstand casted a moderate, soothing light on the whole room and probably a little in the living room outside since there are venetian blinds on my windowed doors. No trench coat murderer. That was a relief. I can be rather yellow sometimes when it comes to being alone in a dark room. Like I have the urge to roll around in a vat of butter just to know what it's like to be a slug and there is some creeper from New York with a mace about to spill your innards all over the butter. But that is not important now. I turned back to the journal. I jumped back with a stifled yelp. There was more writing now.

_Please write._

Same pink ink, same handwriting, same creepiness. For some reason I was so distraught over the journal I threw it under my bed, reached for the lamp to turn it off, and pulled the covers over my head. I woke up the next morning feeling sick. My sickness only changed when I heard the phone ring in the living room outside my room. I sprinted out there and picked it up. For some reason I wanted to be the one to answer it, as if it would be dangerous for anyone else in the house to even touch one of the old telephone. There could be a well-placed hidden mine in the receiver. The nauseating feeling changed by getting worse. It was Kate on the phone, and she was clearly terrified.

"Zach?" she said in an almost squeaky tone. Why would she call our home phone instead of my cell phone? "Zach, you have to come to school, cuz we need to talk. Something happened last night, and I _need_ to tell you about it."

I couldn't think of what to say. She was making me scared. "Kate, what's wrong?" I said it very calm-like, as to not scare her any more than she was then. "You have to tell me now. I'll listen to whatever you say. I'm here for you." The timpani drum in my chest was being pounded on, hurting and rattling my ribs encasing it. I don't think I had ever been so scared when I got a phone call like that. Kate was in trouble.

I heard what sounded like a gulp come from the phone and then a diminutive breath. "Bye," she said.

I drove to school a little earlier than usual. I couldn't go too early or else my mom would think suspiciously of it. I don't know why, but I didn't want anyone else to know about the phone call or the journal. I spotted her at her locker exactly like the day before. It's rather convenient that the school is open for most of the day on weekends, but being there when the only residents of town are in the weight room and the rest of the halls are deserted is a tad bit spooky. She was standing with her back to her locker folding her arms with a dismal look upon her still pale face. I had never seen her look so depressed before which increased my predilection for her. I walked towards her, and once she noticed me, relief filled her disheartened face.

"Zach!" She exclaimed. She was almost running towards me when she hugged me. It felt good to know she was alright. Physically, at least.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

We sat down on the bench right outside the school. It was still pretty early; about nine a.m. Kate looked almost worse in the cold, morning light just peeking over the trees with an orange hue. It would have been romantic if it wasn't for the low temperature wind slightly tickling my hair or the serious topic she was about to tell me.

She took a deep breath. "I know you probably won't believe me when I tell you this, and I wouldn't either if someone told me, but... " She sighed. "I have reason to believe my house is... haunted."

Like the pinging noise of a golf ball hitting the flag of a hole. My heart skipped a beat with an almost painful impact like it had been hit by the imaginary golf ball. Everything that had happened yesterday with the mysterious journal now felt like it was adding up. I was never one to believe in the paranormal until that day. Sure, there were those ghost hunting shows on TV that kept me up all night praying a spirit wouldn't open my door or brush my face, but this was different.

"What makes you think that?" I asked. My voice sounded a little uneven.

She diverted her eyes to the pavement ground. She was blushing; a small tinge of red appearing on her formerly pale cheeks. "That journal you showed me yesterday, I had seen it somewhere before."

Another hole finished. The golf ball dinged a bigger dent in my heart/golf pole that time. That freaking journal was giving me a headache like a monthly chemistry pop quiz.

"It was in my mom's room yesterday morning," She continued after pushing a strand of hair out of her line of vision. That pavement must have really been interesting. "I was getting ready for school... and I went to my room when I saw the journal sitting on the floor right outside her door," Sigh again. She was no longer blushing. "So I picked it up, because I had never seen it before. I asked her about it, she didn't know where it came from, and I ignored it until you showed me that one you discovered. It looked _exactly_ like it. I- I never saw it in my house after that."

She was really uncomfortable now; fidgeting with her ring and occasionally making eye contact, but just for a few seconds. She scooted a little closer to me and touched my handed that lay on the bench. "Last night, I was up late a- and I looked outside my window. It was dark, but I- I could see, uh, my mom just looking in through my window and... I mean, I thought it was mom. It _looked _like her and everything," She sighed and looked skyward in a melodramatic way, but I didn't think she was faking any of it. I tried to help her out.

"What happe- "

"And then when I- " She started again about the same time I spoke.

"Oh, sorry. You go," I quickly apologized for interrupting.

"No, it was my fault. You go," She copied my atonement.

"No, it was me. Just... continue your story!" I started to feel better. It's that moment you get once in awhile in a relationship where you both feel giddy and a little flirtatious. It is like we're trying to get the courage to ask one another out again. It's a great feeling.

She giggled. "Okay! I'll go." She was still touching my hand; lightly stroking the top of it when I looked back to her face. She had the glum, afflictive expression again. "It-... _the_ face of what I thought was my mom went away after about a minute. Then, just this morning, I asked my mom if she had been... I don't know, cutting the bushes or- or other lawn work last night, and she said no."

I wasn't quite positive this was an actual "ghost" at the time. It could have just been her imagination, but then again, what was it if it wasn't her mom? I tried to tell her to just forget about and that it would be alright, but she didn't think I was right.

"It was so- so clear in the window, and..." She swiped a lock of hair over her left ear. "Zach, I just know I wasn't just seeing things."

I put my arm over her shoulder. "I believe you."

To make things short, I decided to keep the journal with me, and I promised to be there for her if she ever had any concerns. Little did she know, I had a plan to figure out what this journal was and who the "ghost" was. Most of the rest of my story will be told through journal form. Yes, that's right. I finally decided to start writing back to the mysterious journal as it asked me to. Later that night I went to my bedroom to start going to sleep, but I left my lamp on so I could write to the journal. Normally I am not afraid of the dark. Sure there are those times where I have a terrible nightmare and I wake up when it is still dark, feeling terrified out of my skin, but that night I first started writing was different.

7/12/11-

Me:

So, you want me to write back.

It:

Yes. Thank you.

Me:

What are you?

It:

Are you sure you want to know?

Me:

Yes. You're freaking me and my girlfriend out.

It:

I am what you want to think I am. I can be where you want me to be. I am here. In your hands, but I'm everywhere in your head.

Me:

This doesn't make sense. How did you get here?

It:

I'm everywhere in your head.

Me:

So I thought you here?

It:

Yes.

Me:

I never thought you here. I've never had a journal, and I don't think about them.

It:

...

Me:

Why are you here?

It:

...

Me:

What are you?

It:

...

Me:

Okay, so it's been two hours since this journal replied to my writing. I'm writing this on the 67th page. Our "conversation" was on page 66. While I was waiting for the last reply, I could have sworn I heard a footstep outside my door. Part of the basement is tiled floor, and the sound I heard was a bare foot slapping down on the hard tile. It was super quiet, too, but I heard the sound clearly. After that I tried to sleep with the lamp on and eventually did. When I woke up about two hours later, I wrote this. I think I'm going to keep a journal on the rest of the pages after this one and have "conversations" with this thing on pages before page 66. I don't know what's gotten into me. Oh, yeah, this journal has gotten into me (sarcasm). Whatever this thing is, I'm going to get to the bottom of it.

Page 67

I woke up just five hours later. Still no reply. I wonder if I offended it or something. When I got out of bed I got a huge chill running up my feet. It was like my feet had touched the tile floor, even though my room has carpeting. It could also be like when I first found the journal with my foot. Touching it then felt weird like it did just now. I think I'm going to have a schedule of writing in the morning and at night if I can.

Page 68

So it's night time now. About 10:30. I tried writing to the journal again. Same results of nothing. All I asked this time was "Do you want to continue talking?" on page 66. Man, this thing's creeping me out. The longer I wait, the more I have to urge to see the writing appear. It's been on my mind all day. It's like when I'm texting someone and they take forever to reply. I called Kate around noon. She said she was fine; doing way better actually. Weird. I'm the exact opposite. She didn't ask about how I felt, though. She did ask about the journal. I told her it was fine; nothing had happened. I feel terrible about lying to her, but I'm kind of doing it for her sake. I don't want her to be scared again. Also, I don't know who I'll show this journal to if it's not her. I guess I'm writing in this so that I can look back on it when it's over. If it gets over. For some reason, I don't want to write to the journal in the morning. I'll just keep writing these journal entries in the morning, but not try to talk to it. Well, I'll wait until tomorrow night to try again.

I woke up the next day to a start. The phone outside my room was ringing. I am a pretty light sleeper, so even a grasshopper jumping on rocks outside in my window well can wake me up. I open my door wooden door. The door makes such a loud cracking noise when it opens, so it is hard to sneak outside in the night to get a glass of water without waking everyone up upstairs. I grab the phone, hit the green button, and hold the receiver up to my ear.

I was about to say hello when someone started talking. It was very quiet at first, but then it grew audible. Someone was mumbling gibberish I just couldn't understand, even with my superior hearing.

"Hello?" I say again. My voice is a little shaky. "Who is this?"

More mumbling, only louder. I hear someone else's voice in the background. A groan; it is a female's voice. The mumbling voice stops. A scream. I had only heard that scream once before. We were in a group for history class making a movie about Joan of Arc. Kate was the actress for Joan, and her final scene was Joan's execution by burning. The scream was blood-curdling when she pretended to be burning. It was the same scream coming from the receiver. It was Kate. The mumbling voice grew louder and Kate's scream stifled to nothing.

"WHO IS THIS?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO KATE?!" I yell into the piece of plastic. I wince and pull the phone away from my ear as the mumbling grew into screaming rivaling mine. It was like the person was gargling liquidy peanut butter. Through the weird bellowing I thought I caught the word "Stana". It could be "stanza" or "stain" with an extra "ah", but I was sure it sounded like it was asking my name: "Stana?"

The mumbling cut when the caller hung up. The monotone, taciturn beeping was the only noise that my ear could handle for a while after that demented phone call. I just stood there, my jaw ajar. _What is happening?_

A/N: Man, now I'm getting a little freaked out writing this! Please tell me what you think in your reviews. Again, I welcome constructive criticism, but nothing rude. Thanks.

Zeskomos


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